


Rust

by ButtersBottomBitch



Category: South Park
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 13:05:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButtersBottomBitch/pseuds/ButtersBottomBitch
Summary: Maybe they try to rationalize it in a way that doesn't make them feel more than they are comfortable feeling for a cause with no solution .-Kenny spews his angst in his diary





	Rust

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a vent fic! Written in "I" POV. Sorta like a poem written by Kenny? The drug mentioned was smoking and alcohol, but not him doing said things himself. Just sad shit. Sorry

There are dark bags, under green pools. But nobody asks why anymore.

Almost nobody questions when I don't show up to school for two weeks. Neither do my parents. 

Nobody questions the scars on my body.

Maybe they think I run through bushes in the woods with my friends, or maybe they think I play with stray cats, or maybe they assume I roughhouse to much with my brother. _Maybe_ they try to rationalize it in a way that doesn't make them feel more than they are comfortable feeling for a cause with no solution . Maybe the discomfort they would feel from trying to find out is greater than the discomfort I feel by having them. Or _maybe_ they just don't care. 

"Its alright that he isn't doing well in school, its not like he's going anywhere in life."

You're right, its all right.

I'm alright when I go home and I hyper focus on the sound of my own breathing to tune out the glass and screaming and choked coughs that smell like cheap tobacco and burnt plastic. I'm alright when I couch jump for a week out of every month so I can wash my clothes and feel safe in the embrace of a random person who wants to fix a broken kid.

When someone sees me for the first time in a month and I haven't slept in five days, 18 hours and thirty two minutes ( _because trust me I keep count of every moment I manage to avoid closing my eyes and seeing my reality_ ) , they ask me how I'm doing. But they don't really care, they don't really want to know.

And that's alright. 

Someday the dirt might wash off and out. The grime under my nails that remind me like a tattoo of the things I've been doing wrong might someday clear out.

The vice grip around my ankles holding me to the concrete and paranoia could finally loosen, and the sensation of heavy footsteps in my chest, and the smell of ashtrays and vomit won't make me feel at home.

Someday everything might be different.

_Someday_ I might be alright with no restrictions, and my skin won't itch when people look at me.

_Maybe_ things will calm in my mind enough that my feet will stay in the same spot for more than three minutes.

It's possible that one morning I'll wake up, and notice that I've been honestly _alright_ , and it won't scare me.

People will ask me how I've been doing, because they won't be afraid of having to pretend that they actually care.

Nobody questions it when I die. Why should I care if my rust makes them uncomfortable?


End file.
